Alliances, Crêpes aux Fraises, et Aliments Chinois
by Muriel Candytuft
Summary: After Colette and Linguini have a fight, Remy believes their relationship is over. Humans never fail to confuse him, though. My first Ratatouille fic!
1. Chapter 1

Alliances, Crêpes aux Fraises, et Aliments Chinoises

_A/N: I never thought I'd do this, but…after a year of being completely in love with the film, here's my first Ratatouille fanfic! I hope it proves an enjoyable read. Linguini x Colette_

OoOoOoOoOoO

Cheap Chinese take-out – that's the smell of depression.

Go ahead and laugh, but the smell of Chinese food, in my mind, is synonymous with dire circumstances, with an angry and confused humanity, with desperation. Tonight, Alfredo has resorted to buying Chinese food instead of letting me cook.

His excuse: Colette just ordered him out of her life.

To this moment, I'm not quite sure what happened. Two hours ago, we were at Colette's apartment in Aubervilliers, where we moved in last week, at her invitation. I was in the living room, burrowed in an electric blanket on the sofa, half-heartedly watching some kitschy crime drama on TV when Alfredo and Colette started yelling at each other in the hallway. Naturally, I was startled by their bulldozer-loud voices. But the fact that they were arguing didn't surprise me; they'd been doing that ever since we moved in. So I ignored them – it was probably just another dispute about Colette's precious thermostat, or the fact that the words "clothes hanger" and "clean floor" mean nothing whatever to Alfredo.

Ignoring them didn't work when they came blundering into the living room, though. I crouched further into the blanket, trying not to be obvious. If Colette was mad at Alfredo, that didn't mean I was safe.

"At least _I _went to college!" Colette shouted.

"Yeah, well at least I – " Alfredo paused, obviously scrambling for something really crushing to say, only managing, " – at least _I'm_ not a woman and have to make a big fuss and stuff because men are better than her at everything!"

I didn't think it was a terribly sharp comeback, but Colette clearly thought so. She stepped up and slapped Alfredo across the face, hard enough that I covered my ears, and that he toppled and hit the sofa on the way down to the carpet.

"Get out!" Colette screamed. "Right now, get out! And if you ever darken my door again, we'll see just how sorry you'll be, _p'tit connard_!"

Without a word, Alfredo snatched me up and tucked me into his pocket, grabbing his keys with the other hand. Colette screamed us out of the apartment, and I watched her from Alfredo's pocket at we left. Her face was red and her fists were clenched, but there were tears in her eyes. Tears? Oh, make up your mind; are you angry or sad?

We took the metro back to our old apartment in Neuilly-sur-Seine. I guess we'll be moving back in here. Not that I really mind; it's a nice place. It's not that super-upscale apartment that Alfredo brought us to when he inherited Gusteau's. We kind of had to downgrade when the restaurant closed. But it's spacious, clean, and comfortable – with a big kitchen to boot. Is this good enough for Alfredo? No, he has to mope because Colette isn't around.

I don't mean to sound so callous. Alfredo really is attached to Colette, and I can respect that. Plus, Colette is my friend, and I hope that this tiff between her and Alfredo won't turn our friendship sour. But…really, she's always yelling at him and slapping him. What makes him keep coming back for more? He's never struck me as a glutton for punishment.

But hey, who am I to talk? I'm just an innocent observer, here. What does a rat know about human feelings?

Alfredo brings in a couple boxes of that disgusting take-out, and then kind of slumps at the island counter, arms on the counter, and head in arms. Poor guy is exhausted. He currently reminds me of an abandoned child I saw at a bus stop once, and the blue jeans and two-sizes-too-big black sweater enhance that image. I crawl up and nudge his hand with my nose.

He looks up, eyes bleary. "Oh, um – sorry. Go ahead, Little Chef, I – I'm not really that hungry."

And I'm not hungry for that particular food, but, unlike Alfredo, I realize that I have to eat. I climb onto one of the boxes, open it, and begin munching on a wonton. It smells like chicken and crab boiled in week-old dishwater.

The silence is awkward, its sour edge only neutralized by the mild hum of the refrigerator and the even quieter hum of the metro outside. Thankfully, Alfredo starts talking before I have to try and make him.

"I – I'm sorry about all this, Little Chef. This moving thing, twice in the week, I…I know it's kind of weird, I just…what am I going to do? I don't know why I had to blow up over there; she probably would have still hated me even if…"

With a very heavy sigh, he pulls a ring out of his pocket (not the one I came home in) and sets it on the table.

"I was…I was going to ask her today…"

Alfredo trails off, gets out of his chair, and walks over to the window without even telling me what he was going to ask. I swallow a mouthful of wonton and examine the ring. It's a silver band, and there's a small, sparkling gem the color of an overripe strawberry, surrounded by seven, tiny white gems, and…oh, so exquisitely shiny…it's all I can do to leave that gorgeous thing alone.

"Do you like it?"

I nod emphatically, but Alfredo is staring out the window at Rue Montrosier.

"It was my mother's. I – I thought Colette would like it. She likes rubies, and…I think that's a ruby. I'm not sure."

Well, that's Colette's loss. What a ring! If you watched it sparkle long enough, you'd probably go blind. Why Alfredo would want to give it to her though, to anyone, is beyond me. I go back to my wonton. It tastes about like it smells.

Come on, Linguini, keep talking. I'm not a mind reader.

He looks sadly at me. "I love her, Little Chef. I don't know if – would – would you understand?"

I shrug as compassionately as I can. Sure, I had a fling or two when I was a younger rat, but…love is pretty much a mystery to me. Not affection, I understand affection. It's how I feel about him, and Colette, and Emile, and the whole family…even my dad. But love? Love is a human thing. The best way I can think to describe what humans call love is obsession. And obsession is not healthy. How can you look after yourself when you're obsessed with somebody else?

Without me around to make him, Alfredo probably wouldn't eat.

Anyway. I'm thinking Alfredo wanted to give the ring to Colette because he's obsessed with – because he loves her. That's very thoughtful, but wouldn't that be wrong, unless she loved with him, too? Judging from the look on her face when we left her apartment, Colette does _not_ love Alfredo. You don't scream at people you love – do you?

While I've been trying to sort this out, Alfredo has been mumbling as he stares out the window, something to the effect of, "Why do I even bother?"

Suddenly, his back straightens up as he slams a fist down on the windowsill. "What am I saying?!" he snaps. "I can't just…just give up, just like that, not after all this time, not after everything we've put into this…"

Alfredo swirls away from the window, marches over to the table, and snatches the ring back up. He holds it high, and we watch it sparkle under the fluorescent ceiling light.

"This is ridiculous! I mean, am I a man or a mouse?" He glances down at me. "No offense."

I shrug again: none taken.

Alfredo jams the ring back into his pocket, looking ready to go out and storm the Bastille. "I love Colette, Little Chef. I want to – I want to spend the rest of my life with her. And I'm willing to go back there and risk everything on that."

I nod: Okay, you do that. At least he's not moping anymore. Who knows? When he gets home, he might even eat.

Alfredo grabs his keys and turns toward the door. "Do you want to come with me or just stay here?"

So, he's going to go give the ring to Colette anyway? That's crazy. But I find myself appreciating his tenacity, without which we would never have gotten this far. With a nod, I cross the table and dive into his pocket – not the one with the ring. As much as I admire that ring, I'm going to try and respect it as a gift for Colette.

"Okay," Alfredo says, "let's do this!"

He fumbles in his other pocket for his orange metro card – it's missing.

"What-the…" he mumbles, checking all his other pants pockets (nearly squashing me in the process) and running to check his coat pockets. "My orange card – where is my orange card?!" He begins a panicky babbling session. "Oh, no, I must have dropped when I went to get dinner! No! Have you seen my orange card, Little Chef?! No, no, no, no! I can't buy another one until next Friday, it's gotta be here somewhere, what am I gonna do, I'm so stupid, stupid, stupid…"

I sigh. Looks like we'll be walking to Colette's apartment.

At least I won't have to finish that wonton.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Alliances, Crêpes aux Fraises, et Aliments Chinoises

_A/N: Wow, thanks for the reviews, guys! They made my day! Sorry to disappoint, BTW, but I am not French, I am American. I just overuse Google and opted to take French instead of Spanish in high school. Oh, check out the walking directions in Paris on Google Maps – they have a street view thing where it shows what it looks like when you're standing on a particular street – it's AMAZING! (It was also great fun looking at my own hometown with this – try it!) Anyway, I digress – here is the second chapter, and enjoy!_

OoOoOoOoOoO

Let nobody say that Alfredo Linguini is lacking in tenacity.

It takes tenacity to consider a two-hour walk from one side of Paris to the other with a rat in your pocket. It takes tenacity to actually attempt said walk. It takes tenacity to deal with first a blistered heel, then shin splints, then a marvelous twist of the ankle. It especially takes tenacity to give up about three-quarters of the way and beg a ride from a sweet old lady in a 1951 Citroën 2CV who drives at a blistering speed of three kilometers per hour and must be told four times that the destination is Aubervilliers, not London, not Munich, and certainly not Moscow.

By the time we reach Aubervilliers, I have made an embarrassing discovery – Alfredo's orange card has been in his pocket the whole time, the one I was riding in. Until time to go home, I decide to keep it to myself.

Poor Alfredo is now all but crawling up the stairs to Colette's apartment – he is gripping the rail with both hands, and from my pocket, I can almost feel the muscles in his legs straining and trembling. To lighten the load, I hop out of his pocket. Then I lead him up the stairs, walking backwards and pounding my hand in my fist shouting, "One more step! One more step! Go, go, go!" Obviously he interprets this as a bunch of squeaks, but he picks up a little speed.

Colette lives on the third floor, so we fortunately don't have to climb many stairs. I sniff curiously at the door when we reach it – beyond it are not only the usual scents of cedar and sweet pea blossoms that define her apartment, but…oh my God, microwave popcorn?! Do all humans resort to second-rate food when under stress? Comfort food, right. Bleh.

Alfredo stands at the door, staring at it like it's an alien. He scratches the back of his neck, reaches for the buzzer, and drops his hand to his side. "I – I can't do this…"

Oh, PLEASE! I punch him in the ankle and scream, "Listen, kid, I didn't join your two-hour trek across the city so you could chicken out at the last minute! You came to give away a ring, and by the almighty Pierre Gagniare, you will do it, or I will bite your skinny ankle until you have to be hospitalized! Now get to it!"

"Okay, okay!" he cries, and pokes at the buzzer. He has to try a few times before it rings. Almost immediately, the door opens.

Colette gives us a blank stare. She wears an oversized Cannes Film Festival T-shirt and oversized sweatpants, and her short dark hair is pulled back. There are very faint tracks of smeary mascara running from her eyelids down to her cheeks.

"What do you mean by coming here at this hour?" she mumbles, and I get the feeling that she's staring not at him, but through him, at the beige wallpaper behind him, anywhere but him.

Alfredo begins as I almost expect him to: "Well, that's a very good question, and I've come to learn that sometimes we don't have all the answers…to the questions…oh, shoot, that came out wrong. Um…listen, I walked…here. To your apartment. Because I couldn't find my orange card, so I walked all the way here…well, most of the way…I had to get a ride when I got to Rue du Landy because I twisted my ankle and my legs were burning…"

This could take all night. How hard is it just to hand a ring over?

"Why did you come here?" Colette prompts, as tired of this rambling as I am.

"I came here because…well, because I love you. That's it."

Colette's nostrils flare. I flinch as her eyes gradually wander down to me. "What's he doing here?" she asks, pointing at me.

Alfredo stops and looks baffled, now that his train of thought has been thus derailed, and stammers, "I don't know…he just…came along, I guess."

Maybe I won't give him his orange card after all.

"Anyway, I love you…it's taken this long for me to say it, it's taken you kicking me out, even though I deserved it…no wait…Let me start over." Alfredo sucks a deep breath in. "I didn't want it to be like this…I wanted it to be special, and romantic, and everything you wanted it to be…heck, I was hoping we could go to the Eiffel Tower, but it didn't turn out that way, and it's my fault, so I'm trying to make it right…because if I don't ask you now, I'll never get another chance!"

Ask _what_? Colette steps back sligzxhtly, her hand on the door, looking ready to slam it in our faces at any minute.

Alfredo finally reaches into his pocket, but before he can pull the ring out, his knees buckle, his eyes roll back, and he hits the floor.

"What-the…" Colette immediately reaches down to pull him up. Looking surprised that Alfredo actually passed out (I'm not – this happened last summer), she half-carries, half-drags him into the apartment. I follow, trying to look ready and helpful if there's anything I can do.

The living room looks unkempt, but not trashed. Colette's bathrobe is draped over one arm of the sofa, and the electric blanket is on the floor. She has the curtains drawn; the only lights are from the blue-and-gold Tiffany lamp next to the TV, and from the TV itself, which is broadcasting BBC. I climb up onto the coffee table, taking my place among the remote, keys, and bowl of popcorn.

Once Colette kicks the door shut behind us, Alfredo wakes up. "Owww…" he moans.

"You passed out," Colette informs him flatly, helping him over to the sofa. "How long has it been since you last ate?"

Alfredo scrunches his eyebrows, looking as baffled as though she just asked him to find π to the seventeenth place. "Uh…well, I had dinner last night, with you, at Café Flores…and…"

Colette glances at me, and I hold my hands up defensively: not my fault. She shakes her head, muttering, "Stupid boy." I'm struck by how sincerely she says it. She usually says it with half a smile, as though it were a term of endearment. There is nothing endearing about her tone. She marches into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of Coca-Cola. After she makes him drink about a third of the soda, she has him lie still on his back. He's sweating and shaking, looks on the verge of tears. Low blood sugar makes such a baby out of him. I, to my own horror, feel so stressed that I reach for a piece of Colette's stale popcorn and begin munching idly.

"Look, just…" Colette sighs through her nose. "Just stay here until you feel ready to go back home." She searches through her purse, which is on the windowsill, until she finds a couple bus tickets. "Use these to get back to your place once you're feeling up to it – " She walks over and holds the tickets out.

Alfredo, instead of taking the tickets, grabs her hand and pulls the ring out of his pocket, blurting out, "Colette Anaïs Tatou, will you marry me?"

"_WHAT_?!" I shout.

"Wha-hat?" Colette says in an odd sort of whisper.

I shake my head, bewildered. That…came out of nowhere.

Well, I guess it makes sense. No wonder he was so anxious to get here. What's with the ring, though? Wait a minute – wedding rings, right. Humans give each other wedding rings when they want to get married – kind of like rats give each other food or neat little trinkets from the basement and alley. You learn something new every day.

Wait a minute…he just…_Alfredo René Linguini just asked Colette to marry him! _I'm so excited that I almost shout, "That's my boy!" before I realize that Colette still has not answered…and that with the way they've been fighting the past few days…the past few months, she might very well say no. I hold my breath. Alfredo is still holding Colette's hand, looking at her like a nervous, large-eyed child, while she just stares, open-mouthed.

"I – Alfredo, I – " For once, Colette is at a loss for words. She runs her fingers through her hair and sighs.

Let's get on with it! "Oh, please, say yes, please say yes," I mutter. Alfredo seems to be thinking the same thing, for different reasons.

"I'm honored, Alfredo, and I'm flattered…but I can't…give you a definite answer just now," she finally says. "Let me think about it."

I growl in spite of myself. Humans…!


End file.
